Panhandling
by l0chn3ss
Summary: "It took just a dollar's worth of tips to make him smile."


Rare Pair Appreciation Day; Sept 2017

Prompt: Fireworks

* * *

It took just a dollar's worth of tips to make him smile.

And Soul wondered to himself what would happen if he dropped a little more change into the man's open case. Every Tuesday and Thursday evening on his commute home, the same guitarist played at the entrance of the subway. Be it rain or shine, hail or sleet above, he was there, plucking at the strings of both familiar songs and new.

On those same days, Soul always made sure to keep a bit of spare change in his pockets despite paying for his tickets both online and with credit card. There was no true reason behind it other than the obvious one: supporting local artists was just something Soul liked to do. Yet when he saw the man beaming at Soul, he wondered how long ago did the funny feeling in his stomach sneak up on him. It must have been recent, because he swore that it wasn't there when he first heard the music.

Kilik set up one summer day on the floor, name engraved on his case, lulling his fleeting audience with his skillful fingers. He needed the extra help to take care of his younger siblings; his parents were too proud to accept support from other community programs. Any amount helped, though it was a thought he wove into his mind because he felt too strange about putting a sob story online or even one on a piece of cardboard beside him. No, his guitar would have to do. To hell with the expectation of walking away with something sizeable.

The first day got him a little less than five dollars, and the second day was even more stingy. Coming back next week after his morning shift was embarrassing, but seeing a man drop more than a quarter made him look up from the ground. Kilik barely caught the head of white that rejoined the mass, but he couldn't help but smile at the gesture, transitioning into a happier tune for the rest of the time he was there.

So day in and day out, Kilik stayed at the site, feeling more encouraged when he found passersbyers happened to donate more when they saw money already in the case. From a steady sum of ten dollars brought him twenty, and then it became just the hourly rate that Kilik could see with his eyes. And still, every Tuesdays and Thursdays, the same white haired man in a suit threw in cash.

A dollar came two, and two turned into three. It was only because Soul had too many bills weighing down his pockets. And he wasn't going to miss a couple of loose papers, especially not with his growing account. Which was the same line of reasoning when Soul tried to justify his bigger bills that he let flutter from his hands. The man playing an acoustic cover of Uptown Funk looked up in shock once a Benjamin dropped down, but Soul decided that he wasn't going to stay for very long after that moment of embarrassment.

He was going to stick with just fives, he thought.

Except Soul was really bad at promises with himself.

Soon enough, Kilik was beginning to grow more curious about his generous donor who showed up everyday at 5pm. He began to look for him in the mass even before he came to the station. If he exited here, does that mean he lived close? Did he have a job somewhere further off- oh, of course he did. But what did he do for a living? Who else does he give tips to? Does he know that he deposited a twenty the other day?

And why did he seem so unreasonably cute when he scurried away?

Kilik blushed slightly, transitioning into a cover of Firework by Katy Perry that he practiced a couple of days prior. Parts of him hoped that the crowd liked the songs that he played, and the other dominating parts wanted to know if the man liked the bits that he heard on his way out. So when he heard the whisper of the unmistakable "nice song," his nail slipped, and the song notably stuttered. He nodded in thanks, unable to keep his pleasure off his face while white haired man tripped up the escalator.

A couple of weeks later, Soul tapped his card against the toll collector, already reaching to draw out money for his little routine. But it was a strange day, Soul mused, not being able to pin why he felt that way. He followed the line of people out until he reached the ticket machines, only to figure out exactly why he'd felt unsteady.

There was no music that day.

No sound of a guitar. No squealing kids asking for money from their parents. No drop of coins from people who felt a dime was too much trouble to put away.

No… there was a man tossing a quarter instead, leaning against the wall, waiting for Soul as he pocketed his change.


End file.
